He had to move. Now!
Smoke billowed from what remained of the top floor. Only a three-story building, Gonz could now see that the missile had sheared off half of the roof, flames licking the empty shell of the building’s walls.
“Where is he!?” Gonz yelled to Heisman. “What floor!?”
“Third!” Heisman called out.
Gonz cursed his luck. As they approached the west side of the building, the first casualty they saw was a young man lying on the grass wearing a T-shirt, shorts and running shoes. His head was covered in blood, chunks of the building’s cinder block wall scattered around him. Three others, a Marine, an Army lieutenant and another man in shorts and a T-shirt were huddled around him.
“Need a medic!?” Gonz shouted without slowing.
“On their way!” the Marine yelled. “There’s more inside!”
Gonz nodded, slipped on something, stumbled, and kept going. He looked back to see he had stepped on a Frisbee, its slick surface sliding out from under him on the thick grass. Heisman shot ahead of him now, going around to the front of the Camp Ward building.
The front entrance area was filled with officers and enlisted men, calling out instructions to each other. Gonz noticed one man had a two-way radio, and he could hear the man giving precise details of the damage to someone on the other end. Not speaking to any of them, Heisman dashed through the open front door, Gonz right on his heels.
The inside of the old building had been quite beautiful in its day, taking a page from ancient Rome with white marble floors and great Ionic columns rising from the floor to a second-level mahogany balcony that encircled the entire circumference of the building. A set of wide, carpeted stairs just to the right of the ornate entrance hall led to the upper floors.
An MP, his head bleeding badly, was the first person they saw. He was sitting about a third of the way up the stairs, a dazed look on his face. As Gonz and Heisman bound up the stairs, he simply gave them a blank look.
“I got a priority one-four in here!” Gonz told him, referring to a person that has been deemed a valuable asset, their allegiance not yet verified, which meant that the person had to remain locked up at all times. “A one-four! Third floor! You seen him?”
The man just stared at Gonz, as if he had asked the question in Chinese. Heisman grabbed Gonz by the arm. “He can’t hear you! C’mon!”
Mustering all his strength, Adnan stood up, bracing himself against the wall with his good arm. His head suddenly started to spin, his stomach violently unsettled. He stood there, catching his breath, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. Move! He told himself. Have to get out of here!
The door opened easily, held upright by only a single broken hinge. Stepping into the corridor, Adnan was surprised to find that just twenty feet away he could see the sky. The roof was gone, and he could see flames shooting up from somewhere below, smoke rising. He instinctively backed away from the blaze, tripping over something on the floor.
It was a soldier.
He was sprawled across the hallway, one leg clearly broken, the tibia protruding from his torn camouflage pants. The man was clearly surprised to see Adnan and tried to speak, but no words came out of his mouth.
Adnan just stared down at the man. “I’ll get help,” Adnan finally managed to tell the soldier in English. “I’ll get you help.”
He turned away and took another step before he was suddenly brought to a halt. He looked down. The soldier had grabbed him by his ankle. Adnan squatted down and with his left hand, pried the man’s fingers away from his ankle. He was surprised by the wounded man’s strength. “I’ll get you help,” Adnan said again. “I will.”
“Upstairs!” someone cried out from below.
Adnan pulled his leg away and quickly hurried down the corridor. At the top of the wide stairs he leaned over the banister and saw the two Americans who interrogated him earlier that morning charging up the stairs. Adnan hesitated for just a moment, then hurried down the stairs as fast as he could manage, each step sending shooting pains through his shoulder and head.
“Shit!” Heisman cried out as he spotted the fallen soldier lying across the hallway, one leg twisted at an awkward angle. Heisman quickly went to the banister and leaning over yelled loudly, “Medic! We need a medic! Third floor!”
“Where was he!?” Gonz asked Heisman.
“There!” Heisman pointed to the opened door as he kneeled beside the injured serviceman.
Gonz dashed inside, calling out, “He’s gone. But he’s hurt. A lot of blood in here!”
Heisman looked at the soldier. “The man in there... Where’d he go?” The man moved his lips, but no sound came out. “Where is he! Where’d he go, man!?”
The soldier tried again to speak. Nothing.
Gonz kneeled beside the soldier on the other side. He nodded to Heisman. “Roll him.”
Heisman grabbed the soldier by his shoulders and rolled him on his side giving Gonz a clear view of the man’s backside, which was covered with blood. “Put him back, easy.”
Heisman did as he was told, telling the soldier, “You’re going to be fine, okay?”
Gonz stood up and leaned over the banister. “Medic! Get a medic up here! Now!” Looking at Heisman he said, “Stay here until he’s taken care of.”
Heisman could only watch as Gonz took off down the stairs.
Adnan had ducked into an empty room on the second level as the two American interrogators had flown past, not even glancing in his direction. The stairway clear, Adnan had quickly gone down to the first floor, holding his right arm firmly across his body with his left hand, the only position in which his injured arm and shoulder felt comfortable. As he had reached the door, he had nearly collided with two Army medics, the standard Red Cross emblem on the sleeves of their uniforms clearly indicating their status. One man had a medical bag in-hand, the other carried a canvas stretcher under one arm like a surfboard. Adnan had been surprised when one of the men asked, “What have you got?”
“Guy with a broken leg on the third floor. Pretty bad.”
“We need a medic! Third floor!” they heard someone bellow.
The medics had scurried up the stairs as Adnan rushed out. He was surprised by the swarm of U.S. servicemen outside the building, many shouting at each other. A fire truck had arrived and was trying to control the flames. Adnan bypassed the onlookers, walking as fast as he could.
He ducked around the side of the building. An ambulance had arrived, waiting to transport the wounded. As he headed across the grass, he saw two medics lift a man who wore only a T-shirt and shorts. Adnan stopped short. He then saw the other Frisbee player walking beside his friend, talking to him. He kept his head down, passing by the open back doors of the ambulance as the injured man was put inside.
“Hey! Where you think you’re going!?” Adnan heard from behind him. His heart racing, he walked faster.
“Hey! Stop!”
His heart pounding, Adnan finally stopped. A Navy corpsman was staring at him. “What’s your name?”
Adnan hesitated. He wanted to get as far away as possible, but he knew if he took off it would look suspicious.
“Your name?”
“Mohammed,” Adnan finally muttered.
“What’s your business here?”
“Interpreter.”
The man looked him over with a critical eye. Then nodded. “Got a pretty nasty head wound.” The man nodded toward the ambulance. “Get inside.”
Astonished, Adnan started to speak. “I don’t know–”
“I do,” the corpsman said. “Get in. Get your head fixed.”
Adnan looked toward the front of the building just as the white American interrogator came outside, frantically looking around. His back was to Adnan, but in a minute he would turn around and see him. Adnan quickly nodded at the corpsman and made his way to the ambulance, still holding his lifeless right arm tight across his chest with his left hand. The corpsman gave him a hand up, and Adnan found a seat o
n the metal cabinet next to the injured man on the stretcher.
The corpsman grinned at Adnan. “You might want to scrub that shirt. Us Navy guys don’t much like them.”
The man slammed the doors shut and pounded an open hand on the back window. The ambulance pulled away, the siren wailing.
Adnan looked down at this shirt. He was still wearing the Army T-shirt which read Kill the squibs! Sink Navy!
Ash Shatrah, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 2:36 p.m.
“We need gas,” the man who called himself Yusuf said as he pulled the truck off the highway.
Ghaniyah was surprised by his words since he had hardly spoken to her at all after they had left her aunt’s house. Once they were well north of Basra, she had finally broken the silence by asking him his name.
“You don’t need to know that,” he had curtly replied.
“I do if I want to address you properly.”
He had glanced over at her, then mumbled, “Yusuf.”
Ghaniyah had then asked, “How long will it take us? To get to Baghdad?”
“A while.”
Neither had said another word during the past two hours, until he had taken the third exit after reaching the city of Ash Shatrah and announced they needed gas. Pulling up to the first pump at a modern gas station, Ghaniyah surprised him when she got out of the truck too. As he glared at her, she looked at the ground subserviently and explained, “I need the restroom.”
Yusuf grunted by way of answering, and Ghaniyah quickly walked toward the nearby pay station. Since the facility was obviously new, she imagined they would have a clean bathroom. Entering the small building, she was surprised to see several men gathered around a small black and white television on the counter behind the cashier. Keeping her eyes averted, she made her way to the back of the building where a sign on a door marked the unisex bathroom.
Stepping inside, she flipped on the wall light switch as the stench washed over her. She was not surprised to see that there was no toilet – simply a hole in the ground. Fortunately, there was also a small sink with a paper towel dispenser. She was in luck. Turning back to the closed door, she slipped the simple slide lock into place. Then she quickly bent over and pulled the knife from her boot.
Inspecting her instep, she could see where the sharp blade had painfully cut into her skin. Using a wet paper towel, she tended to the laceration as best as she could. She then wrapped two fresh paper towels around the knife blade, until it served as a thick sheath. Replacing it in her boot, just as before, the knife handle was still accessible if need be. Once again, she put weight on the foot, walked across the tiny bathroom floor, making sure it was secure. The course paper felt infinitely better. She looked at the hole in the floor and decided she better relieve herself while she had the chance.
When she emerged from the bathroom several minutes later, she could hear the men around the cashier talking loudly. Yusuf was there, paying the bill. He hadn’t yet seen her, and she silently approached, curious to see what had excited the men so much on the television. Probably a soccer match.
“How many Americans dead?” one of the men asked.
“They aren’t saying,” the cashier answered, handing Yusuf his change. “Quite a few hurt, though.”
“Inside the Green Zone!” the first man marveled. “Imagine that.”
“What happened?” Yusuf asked.
“A missile hit a building in the Green Zone. Some U.S. Army building,” the cashier explained.
Ghaniyah glanced over the shoulder of one of the men and saw the chaotic scene unfold on the small television. The visual wasn’t terribly clear and the image bounced a bit, but she could see men yelling and waving at each other, the building on fire in the background.
“Television cameras were there?” Yusuf asked the cashier. “Inside the Green Zone?”
“Footage was from some young Shiite. He sells DVDs at the marketplace. He had a video camera so he grabbed it and ran to the scene.”
“Sold it to al Jazeera and made a fortune,” the first man said with a laugh.
Ghaniyah had seen enough and was about to turn away when something caught her eye. It was the grainy image of a man who looked oddly familiar to her. The man held one arm with the other tight across his chest, his T-shirt blood stained. The camera zoomed in, and she could see the injured man’s face clearly now.
It was Adnan!
MP-5, The Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 2:59 p.m.
“Right there!” Gonz shouted, pointing at the computer monitor.
“I don’t believe it,” Heisman said in amazement, as he watched the video footage. With televisions running 24/7, Peterson had quickly downloaded the amateur video of the bombing so they could study the footage. Now they watched as Adnan got into the back of the ambulance.
“He’s in the hospital!” Gonz said triumphantly.
“Question is, which one?” Heisman quickly headed over to a nearby desk and picked up his satellite cell phone. “The one here turned away some casualties right off the bat. They were already reeling from a car bombing.” Heisman was referring to the only hospital inside the Green Zone.
“I need the I.D. on this!” Gonz growled impatiently.
“Getting it now,” Peterson calmly told him.
“Shit! We must’ve just missed him!” Heisman cursed, the phone to one ear.
“Replaying now,” Peterson explained as Gonz hovered over the young man’s shoulder. The rear of the ambulance was seen again, right after the doors had been closed and it was ready to pull away. Peterson pulled a still screen capture of the small numbers stenciled onto the rear bumper. A close-up then appeared on the monitor. Peterson read them out. “Four-Bravo-Eight-One-Hotel. Repeat, Four-Bravo-Eight-One-Hotel.”
“Got it,” Heisman responded. Into the phone he said, “Yeah, I’m trying to trace an ambulance. Took some casualties from the FROG missile attack this afternoon... Yeah, I got the I.D...”
Gonz tapped Peterson on the shoulder. “Give me a close-up of him.”
His hands flew across the keyboard and a moment later a tight image of Adnan appeared on the screen.
“Enhance...” Gonz told him.
“Can’t.”
“Shit!”
“It was amateur footage. If I had the original, that would be one thing. But this feed is from the Arab T.V. station. I need –”
“Never mind. Rewind and play from the moment he comes into frame,” Gonz said.
Both men watched as the video played once again. The camera showed medics rushing into the burning building, then the image bobbled as the amateur cameraman dodged people and headed around the side of the building. A close-up of the injured man wearing shorts and a T-shirt on a stretcher, his friend walking with him, anxious. Then a clear shot of the man being put into a waiting ambulance. In the next frame Adnan was talking with a Navy corpsman.
“There! Slow it down,” Gonz told him.
The video slowed and Gonz watched carefully as Adnan said something to the Navy corpsman, shook his head once, looked past the corpsman, then gave a tight nod and walked to the ambulance. The video continued as Adnan got in the ambulance, the back of his shirt clearly blood-soaked.
“Geez...” Peterson mumbled. “His back is all cut up.”
“Head wound,” Gonz explained. He looked over to Heisman. “Head wound and either broken arm or a separated shoulder! Right arm!”
Heisman nodded.
“The corpsman,” Gonz said. “He’s in uniform. Let’s get his name.”
Peterson quickly rewound the tape, Adnan swiftly walking backward out of the ambulance. The tape started to play again, but this time both men focused on the Navy corpsman. However, either his back was to the camera, or his profile – never face on.
“Turn around, mister,” Peterson willed him. The video showed the corpsman shut the ambulance doors and bang his hand on the rear window. Then it cut back to the burning building.
“Shit,” Gonz muttered.
“Got it!” Heisman cried out. “Yarmouk Hospital. Iraqi calling himself Mohammed. He’s in for a head injury and a separated shoulder!”
“Got you, you bastard!” Gonz said excitedly to the image on the monitor.
Chapter Eighteen
58 Kilometers Northwest of Ash Shatrah, Iraq Saturday, April 15th 4:48 p.m.
The last remaining fragments of the sun were still visible on the horizon, the air already decidedly cooler. Ghaniyah stood by herself gazing at the setting sun, which seemed to just sit on top of the desert hill in the distance. In front of her were hundreds of goats scattered across the rolling terrain, grazing on scrub brush. Standing here, on the knoll where the rancher’s house sat, the view was peaceful and soothing.
Undisturbed by Yusuf or the rancher who had taken them in for the night, Ghaniyah was alone with her thoughts. And as always, her thoughts turned to Adnan. As Yusuf had driven the truck north, not saying a word, she had replayed the video image of Adnan in his blood-soaked shirt and holding one arm rather awkwardly, over and over again in her mind.
While she had been fretting about him ever since they had left the gas station, she kept telling herself that he would be fine. After all, he had walked to the ambulance without assistance. He probably just had a broken arm and the blood might even be from someone else – someone else he tried to help. That would be so typical of Adnan.
“Dinner will be shortly,” a timid voice said from behind her. Ghaniyah turned to see the rancher’s daughter, a homely girl of maybe ten years of age. Catching Ghaniyah’s eye, she quickly looked to the ground.
“Thank you,” Ghaniyah replied. She had asked the rancher’s mother, an old woman, if there was anything she could do to help prepare for the evening meal. The woman hadn’t said a word by way of reply; she had just dismissed her with the angry wave of her hand. Ghaniyah had then gone outside to get fresh air. She glanced at the young girl. Where was her mother? Did she have one? The girl didn’t move, but didn’t look up at her, either. Finally Ghaniyah said, “It’s nice here.”
Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) Page 19